


Playground Rules

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, No Dialogue, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frankly, Emily wants both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playground Rules

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set maybe mid season 7? Not historically accurate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Honestly. _Men._

Emily is perfectly aware of the two idiots hovering at the top of her stairs, half hidden around the corner, whispering furiously to one another as though she’s not on top of every last thing happening in her morgue. She knows they’re there, knows they’re being ridiculous, but she doesn’t go to greet them. She pretends she’s as oblivious as they think her, because she’s got better things to do than listen to full grown men argue over who she should attend dinner with. 

Like cutting open Mr. Wellington. The cause of death is obvious—blunt force trauma to the back of the head—but that’s no reason not to slice into his chest and extract his stomach. If she knows Detective Murdoch, he’ll care about the contents. And besides, it keeps her too busy for the childish distraction going on in her peripherals. 

She could, of course, wheel the table over to the other side, stand with her back to them, and ignore it completely. But then she wouldn’t get to see, even if only out of the corner of her eye, a very smartly dressed Leslie Garland nearly flattening a uniformed George Crabtree into the bookshelf. She knows they’re standing so close so their words won’t carry, so they won’t disturb her—which they probably don’t realize they’ve already done. But even knowing that, she can’t help but notice how very, _very_ close they are, quiet fight or not. George has his hat under one arm, the other hand raised to point a finger, hovering just a few centimeters under Leslie’s chin. Leslie’s arms are at his sides, his hands out of sight from her, covered by the desk, and she’s not about to properly look. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were pushing George—under that suave exterior, Emily knows there’s a dominant, aggressive streak in Mr. Garland—but they couldn’t be any higher than George’s hips. Maybe they’re resting on George’s outer thighs, holding him against her bookcase. 

Emily pauses for a fraction of a second, her scalpel halfway imbedded in flesh. Then she uses the heel of her other hand to push some of her hair back into her bun, though she knows it’s not going to stay. So much for not being distracted. She returns to slicing skin and half wishes they’d just get it over with and kiss. That would be far more interesting than a fight—a much better excuse to ignore work. And it would save her a lot of trouble too. It was never Emily’s idea to have to pick only one man out of two (and perhaps more in the future) desirable options. She knows it’s how society works. She knows she doesn’t really have a choice. But if she did, she’d be more than happy to go to dinner with both of them, play footsie under the table with both of them, and take them both home. Or maybe to Leslie’s place—he probably has the nicest home of all of them, though then, she might run into Julia, and she’d have to explain that she simply can’t be expected to choose between the pretty, charming Leslie Garland and the adorable, sweet George Crabtree. 

She’d share, of course. Emily isn’t greedy. She does, after all, have a very busy day job, and she wouldn’t expect Leslie and George to have to wait for people to stop dying to get attention. They could still come and visit her, but there would be times she would have to keep her hands busy on the ever-flowing fountain of Toronto cadavers while Leslie and George sat off to the side with one another, enjoying their binary company. 

And she could watch, like she is now.

They wouldn’t be fighting, of course. No, in Emily’s fantasized future, there’s no sense wasting time on petty arguments. They do, after all, both have respectable careers and acceptable brains. For men. Instead, they would be tucked into the corner, huddled close, for much different reasons. Leslie’s hands really would be on George’s hips, and George would be exhaling, looking up through his lashes and wearing that cute, dazed look he gets whenever something _wrong_ but _good_ is happening. He wouldn’t know what to say. It would take work to get him to accept the touch of another man, but not so much as another might—George has always had an open mind. Leslie, on the other hand, would be smirking that coy little grin of his, and he’d trail his hand along George’s thigh, not content to stay so done up in all their clothes. 

Looking at George’s uniform, even only at a glance like this, gives Emily a spark of excitement. Does he have handcuffs at home, she wonders? Probably not yet, but surely she could get him to sneak away a spare pair. Then she and Leslie could tie him to the bed and take their turns. In reality, one of Leslie’s arms shifts, and Emily imagines it unbuttoning the front of George’s pants, bypassing the tucked in undershirt and slipping between underwear and skin. George would gasp at that, maybe clutch at Leslie’s arms, look over at her to check that she wouldn’t mind, and she’d nod once, giving permission. She wants George to be happy. And she wants to see him happy. She wants to see him ruffled up from sex, dirty and debauched. She wants another stiflingly hot day, so he’ll wander back into her morgue with an unbuttoned uniform, a tantalizing peek at his collarbone and maybe a dripping snow cone to lick off his hand. 

But they’re still fighting, and George shakes his head, wincing at some unheard remark, while Emily imagines him flushed and crinkling his nose at having someone touch him _there._

Emily’s no angel. Even if she hadn’t dissected her fair share of naked men, she’d know the male anatomy better than most of her colleagues. She can picture George easily. His cock’s probably a fair size, uncircumcised, dusty peach and quick to excitement—it would pulse to life as soon as Leslie got his hand around it. George would be new, innocent and unpracticed, but Leslie, Emily’s sure, would know exactly what he was doing. He’d have talented hands. He’d give George a light squeeze and start to pump his fist, while George arched into the touch and moaned loud enough to echo off the walls. Leslie would start to strip off George’s jacket, and George would tug at Leslie’s tie, and they’d kiss in between. Their lips would fit perfectly together. Emily knows George is a great kisser. Leslie would likely be just as good. They’d both look beautiful, and they’d eagerly rut into each other, George humping Leslie’s hand like the dogs he so loves, and Emily would watch and love every second. 

It takes her a moment to notice that Leslie’s pulling away. Not her fantasy Leslie, the one quite happy to get on his knees and take George in his mouth. The here and now one, all done up in an expensive suit and a striking smile. He starts down the ramp, and George hurries to follow, looking flustered and passionate and like just the sort of man she wants on top of her in bed. Or beneath her. Or any which way she can have him. 

She doesn’t acknowledge them until they’re undeniably close, right in front of her table. Then she looks up at them, silently grateful that the blood on her hands should sufficiently distract from the blush on her cheeks. She stands strong and confident anyway: no sign of weakness. She can’t be bullied into their decisions. 

She has half a mind to send them both away for presuming to fight over her time, rather than just asking her opinion. But then, they’re a little too handsome—and eager to please her—to pass up. She smiles and says their names with equal politeness, nodding at them both. 

They dive into propositions, more innocent than she’d like, and Emily pretends to listen, inwardly trying to pick which one she’d rather have under her skirt tonight.


End file.
